"Why?"
Durham rapped out the question in a savage staccato.
"Because I—oh!" she exclaimed, as she shuddered. "It is so horrible to think of, to think that you who—when you were delirious, Mr. Durham, you used to talk—you used to say things so full of tenderness and sympathy that I wondered—wondered whether you were then your real self or whether your real self was the man you are now—hard, stern, pitiless, relentless. It was because of that I asked you if you ever felt compassion for those you chase to their doom. I would rather remember you as the man I learned to know when you unconsciously revealed to me your other nature. It is only as that I care to remember you. But if you met that man and killed him—oh, how could I bear to think of you as a murderer? It would kill me!"
"I should not be a murderer. I should be carrying out my duty—a duty I hope I may never be called upon to perform, but one which I should not shrink from performing if I were called on by circumstances to perform it."
For a space there was another silence between them, until he remembered she was standing.
"Will you not sit down?" he said quietly. "Let me bring you a chair. This is my last night here," he said, when she had taken the chair he brought. "Do not let us talk about that wretched side of life. I want, before I go, to thank you for all the goodness and kindness you have shown to me. You have been——"
She made an exclamation of impatience.
"You have nothing to thank me for, Mr. Durham. Surely there is nothing deserving of thanks in doing what one could to relieve unmerited suffering. I only had—compassion."
"It was more than compassion. It was the——"
"Now, please. You will only annoy me if you say any more about it. If you had had a skilful nurse, you would have been cured long ago; it was my foolish blundering which delayed you so long."